Liza Marklund - Red Wolf

‘Very funny,’ she said, feeling the sleet run down the back of her neck. ‘The one sending Mao quotes to his victims.’

Q stared at her for several seconds. She saw the snow settle on his hair and slowly slide down towards his eyebrows. The shoulders of his flame-coloured raincoat were soon soaked. The bare hand clutching his briefcase imperceptibly gripped the handle tighter.

‘I’m not with you,’ he said, and she felt a chill come from inside out rather than the other way round.

‘The journalist in Luleå,’ she said. ‘The boy who witnessed his death. A Centre Party councillor in Östhammar. There must be something that connects them.’

He took a couple of paces towards her, his eyes darkly watchful, and tried to get past her.

‘I can’t talk now,’ he said from the corner of his mouth.

She moved quickly to the right, blocking his path.

‘It’s Ragnwald,’ she said in a low voice when he was right in front of her. ‘He’s back, isn’t he?’

Commissioner Q looked at her for several long seconds, their white breath mingling as it was blown away by the wind.

‘One fine day you’re going to be too clever for your own good,’ he said.

‘Have been, all my life,’ she said.

‘I’ll call you this evening,’ he said, and she let him walk round her, hearing him speak into the entry phone, and the click as the lock opened.

Anne Snapphane was walking straight into the wind, no matter which direction she faced. Every time she changed direction, the sleet changed as well. As usual she cursed the fact that she had been so amenable when Mehmet had suggested that Miranda go to a nursery in his block rather than near her. He was firmly settled in his home, and she wasn’t, so it had made sense at the time.

But not any more, four years and eighteen thousand hours of travelling back and forth later.

The nursery really was in an idyllic setting, in an inner courtyard off one of the quietest and smartest streets on Östermalm. Almost all Miranda’s friends there had posh names with ‘von’ or ‘af’.

Okay, so there was a pair of twins with the common name Andersson, but they were the daughters of Sweden’s most popular film actress.

She turned the last corner and was met with a storm of icy shards, making her gasp, ready to admit defeat. She stopped to catch her breath, squinted and could just make out the entrance further down the street, as she leaned against the building at her side.

It wasn’t the wind or sleet that was getting to her, she was well aware of that. And it wasn’t some hideous disease that would end up being named after her either.

It was her job, or rather it was the boiling cauldron of power-struggles that the owners of the company had ignited when they set up TV Scandinavia. Today the family that owned the biggest film distribution company in Scandinavia, and which also happened to own Annika’s bloody tabloid, had sabotaged all the negotiations they had conducted with both foreign and Swedish film companies. The agreements that formed the very foundation of TV Scandinavia had been broken, one by one, starting at half past eight that morning. The owners had been busy over the weekend, scaring the life, not to mention the profit, out of every single independent film company north of the Equator.

I wonder what’s going to happen , Anne thought, closing her eyes against the darkness. Is this television company built on solid ground, or quicksand?

She was desperate to get home; and desperate for a drink, a bloody large glass of vodka with lemon and ice, cotton-wool for the brain, and a chance for her body to relax.

Not in front of Miranda , she thought. She could see Annika’s face in front of her when she had told her about her father’s drinking, how he had made such a fool of himself, falling over and shouting, until he was eventually found dead in a snowdrift a few hundred metres from the works in Hälleforsnäs.

Can’t let that happen , she thought, bracing herself against the wind and setting off again towards the nursery.

A strong smell of small children and wet raincoats hit her as she opened the door. The porch was a sea of brown mud, with the cheery command ‘Hello! All shoes off!’ on a colourful sign above the shoe-rack.

Anne wiped her feet half-heartedly: the state of the doormat suggested that it wasn’t going to make any difference. Then she tiptoed into the hall where all the little blue shelves, an alcove for every child, were full to overflowing with children’s clothes, stuffed toys, drawings, photographs of holidays, birthdays, Christmases.

She took a deep breath, about to call to her daughter, when she caught sight of the woman in the door to the kitchen.

Tall, thin, with long, strawberry-blond hair in soft curls over one shoulder. A Palestinian shawl.

Anne blinked.

So ridiculously medieval, wearing a Palestinian shawl.

The woman stiffened when she saw Anne, her eyes taking on a look of slight panic.

‘I…’ she began, collecting herself. ‘My name’s Sylvia, I’m Sylvia.’

She took a few steps forward, and held out her hand.

Anne stared at the woman, nausea growing like a tornado in her stomach, unable to lift her hand or return the greeting.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said. The words sounded brittle and echoey to her own ears.

Mehmet’s new woman, his fiancée, his future wife, the woman who was carrying his new child, she was standing in front of her looking confused and pretty terrified.

‘I… was going to pick Miranda up, but she said that you…’

‘It’s my week,’ Anne said, unable to understand why her voice was coming from so far away. ‘Why are you here?’

Sylvia Pregnant Fiancée ran her tongue over her lips and Anne noticed they were sensual, she was beautiful. Sylvia was much more beautiful than she was. Jealousy and spite pricked her eyes like knives, warping her sight. She was beside herself with spite and humiliation and realized at that very moment that she had lost, and if she allowed herself to look destroyed then she would be. She would have to construct some self-respect for herself.

‘I must have got it wrong,’ Sylvia said. ‘I thought I was supposed to be collecting her today. I thought it was my day.’

‘Do you start all your sentences with “I”?’ Anne said, suddenly able to move again, her legs manoeuvring past Sylvia Beautiful Pregnant Fiancée and into the kitchen to a yell of ‘Mummy!’

Miranda flew into her arms, holding an apple-core in one hand, and buried her sticky mouth in her hair.

‘Darling,’ Anne Snapphane whispered. ‘I bet you almost blew away today!’

The girl leaned back and looked at the ceiling.

‘They had to tie me down,’ she said. ‘Then I flew like a kite all the way to Lidingö.’

Anne laughed, the girl wriggled loose and ran past Sylvia Beautiful without taking any notice of her stepmother. She called over her shoulder, ‘Can we have pancakes for tea? Can I break the eggs?’

Anne walked up to Sylvia, who was in her way by the door.

‘Sorry now?’ she said dully.

‘I feel so sick,’ Sylvia said, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘I don’t understand how I could get it so wrong. Sorry. It’s just… I feel so ill the whole time. I spend all my time being sick.’

‘Get an abortion, then,’ Anne said.

Beautiful Sylvia flinched as though she’d been slapped, her face turning bright red. ‘What?’ she said.

Anne took a step closer, breathing right into the other woman’s face. ‘The worst thing I know,’ Anne said, ‘is spoiled bitches whining. You really expect my sympathy?’

Pregnant Lovely Sylvia took a step back and hit her head on the doorframe, mouth and eyes wide open.